


Needing A Hand

by ghostchibi



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disabled Character, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9210773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostchibi/pseuds/ghostchibi
Summary: Maxson wakes up with some arm problems, and being the logical human being he is, doesn't actually ask Sam for help until he absolutely has to.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fethermage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fethermage/gifts).



> Written for my buddy Goose as part of a trade (a very late trade on my behalf, whoops), basically a fic about Maxson and their SoSu Sam pre-relationship during one of the moments that helps them trust each other more. Sam's canon has a significant canon divergence in that Sam rescues Maxson and the squires during the assault on the Prydwen by the Railroad. Sam's canon Maxson also has a realistic-looking prosthetic for his right forearm.

His arm is numb.

Maxson slowly rouses from sleep, and his brain is only still half-awake as he tries to move his body. He rolls over onto his side successfully, although his shoulder is still bent back with his arm awkwardly behind his back.

His arm is numb.

He sighs to himself; did he sleep on his arm last night? There's a static-y tingle in his upper arm that says that might be the case. Slowly, he shifts his arm so that he can bring it over himself and in a more comfortable position, but something is off. His forearm seems to drag. Confused, Maxson lifts his arm and then watches as his forearm immediately flops down as his arm rotates.

_His arm is numb._

He's awake immediately. Maxson jerks up into a sitting position, his right forearm dead to any pressure or tactile stimulus. He squeezes his wrist with his other hand a bit too tightly, but succeeds in nothing but leaving an imprint of his nails on his skin. He doesn't feel that either.

"I can fix this," he says to himself. He's fixed his arm from an even worse shape before. He can fix this.

His first thought is that the connection is loose; it's the most likely reason for this. His fingers clasp at the connection point, pushing so that his arm fits properly around the stump. There's a soft puff of air, and for a moment Maxson thinks he's got it aligned properly again. But there's no response at all from his arm, still numb and limp. Something on the inside is broken.

He scrambles to the small case of tools he's collected. It's made to open easily with just one hand, but his left hand is shaking and it takes a few tries before the clasps open. He spills half the contents across the desk too in his haste, swearing as he searches for the right tools.

"Come on, come on..."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Arthur is about ready to throw his arm at the wall.

He can't fix what's wrong with it. There had been a few issues like a loose wire here or a faulty connection there that he could fix, but there's degraded parts that need replacing that he can't just fix. Something somewhere is dead, effectively cutting off all of the connections between his arm and his nerves. He's tempted to just smash his fist into the damn thing the way he's seen Sam open-palm smack troublesome machinery, but that would probably destroy something inside.

He tugs a wire and yells when it suddenly sends a jolt up to his shoulder. He probably should have taken his arm off before trying to fix it, but his panic had made him skip a few steps. The jolt leaves a residual ache in his arm and stump, but he can vaguely feel the pressure of his arm against the table.

"Oh," he breathes, and experimentally tries to move his fingers. His ring finger and pinky twitch. Better than no feeling at all.

Eventually he can move all of his fingers again and his sense of touch is there; his grip is weak, and he can hardly feel his nails as he scratches up his arm to test his senses.

Something is still broken for sure, but at least for the time being it'll work. At least until he can find a way to get this fixed.

How is he going to get this fixed?

He doesn't have a whole lot of of options. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that he has practically no options.

There are only three others here; Sam, Ada, and Jezebel. Asking Sam is completely and utterly out of the question, and Jezebel does nothing but spout complaints about her form (and about everything else she sees, for that matter). Which leaves Ada, and Maxson isn't even sure if she can help. But it's worth a shot, so he gathers his wits and approaches the heavily modified assaultron.

* * *

"Are all humans knowledgable about human anatomy?" is the response he gets to his query.

"Er- no," Maxson replies as Ada stares at him. He probably shoud have expected this, he thinks as he finds himself suppressing the urge to shift uncomfortably. How a featureless robotic head can look so irritated is beyond him, and why he's feeling so embarrassed for asking a question to a piece of machinery is not something he wants to unpack right now.

"If you require help, go ask Sam."

Ada turns and walks away, leaving Maxson at square one again. What other options existed? Maxson isn't going to approach Jezebel about this, not when her- _its_ approach to helping humans in general is to kill them. There's the trader who arrives once a week or so with wares, and if she has any of the parts he needs to replace he could possibly fix his arm himself.

Unfortunately, that falls through as well; not that Maxson had expected too much, but the trader has more in the way of food and living supplies rather than wires and machinery parts. What little she does have doesn't seem to work with his arm, either too big to fit or too different to modify. He thanks her for her help anyway and ends up buying a new pair of needle-nose pliers to avoid looking ungrateful for her attempt to help.

Needle-nose pliers aren't much help without the necessary components to fix his arm, though.

* * *

Sam eyes Maxson strangely as he opens a cabinet in the kitchen. Maxson isn't sure if this is because of his arm or something else, but Maxson tries to stay calm even though he's avoiding using his right arm.

"Did you sleep on your arm wrong?" Sam asks. So he did notice.

"It's sore," Maxson replies, and doesn't elaborate further. That doesn't deter Sam in the slightest.

"A hot compress might help that," Sam adds helpfully, and smooths out the letter laid out on the table to continue reading it. Maxson doesn't really care enough to see who it's from; maybe from one of Sam's friends, maybe from the Minutemen. Maybe from the Railroad, for all he knows, yelling at him again for letting Maxson live and being a bad agent. Maxson finds a cup and pulls it down, closing the cabinet a little too loudly by smacking it closed with his palm. Sam's head pops up, startled at the noise.

"Sorry," Maxson apologizes gruffly and tries to busy himself finding the pitcher of purified water in the fridge. He can still feel Sam's gaze on his back.

* * *

"Hello, you dramatic weirdo," Sam says.

"What."

Maxson looks up from the notebook in his hands. Sam is standing in front of him, head tilted slightly to the side and one eyebrow raised.

"I don't understand what I've done to deserve that insult," Maxson replies, and takes a sip from the almost-perfectly preserved frosted glass cup that he'd found one time while scavving, the one with the interesting etched curves. There are other cups that would work just as fine, but Maxson had taken a liking to it and decided to take it back with him once faced with the sudden realization that yes, he could just take it and keep it without worrying about looking like a hedonist to anyone who would judge. Except maybe Sam, considering the look he's getting from him.

"You've done everything to deserve that insult," Sam says, and gestures to Maxson with a sweeping move of his arm. "Like, lying in a patch of flowers with a fancy glass while writing. I think that counts as dramatic."

Maxson stares at Sam, puts his glass down, and picks up his pen again. Sam's gaze follows the movement of his left hand and frowns.

"I thought you were right-handed."

"I'm ambidextrous."

"Yeah, but you use your right hand more."

"Do I need to have a reason to write with my left hand?"

Maxson tries to look stern, hoping that Sam will feel silly for bringing up something so trivial. He's also hoping that Sam won't realize that this isn't actually trivial at all.

"Well, alright," Sam replies, and turns to leave to wherever he had intended to go in the first place. Maxson waits until Sam is out of view, and tries to wiggle the fingers on his right hand.

His thumb twitches, and the rest of his fingers uncurl and curl slowly.

* * *

The cup lands on the floor with a resounding shatter.

Glass shards skitter across the kitchen floor as Maxson swears loudly. He'd meant to grab it with his left hand, but reached for it with his right out of habit; his arm had lifted it just fine, but his fingers hadn't kept a solid enough grip on the glass and it slipped from his hand. Maxson sighs and rubs his forehead; he doesn't even want to look at the frosted glass pieces scattered all over the kitchen, much less think about how he's going to clean this up before Sam notices.

"Are you okay?"

Shit.

Sam's head pokes out through the doorway, and his eyebrows shoot up at the sight of glass all over the floor and Maxson with his hand on his face.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" Sam asks, hurrying over to Maxson. Maxson shakes his head and waves him off.

"I just dropped a glass," he replies, looking down at his feet in irritation. Maxson knocks away a few shards with the side of his foot.

"Slipped out of your hand?" Sam asks. Maxson sighs again.

"Yes."

"Is your hand okay?"

" _Yes_."

"Still sleeping on it wrong for a week?"

Maxson glares at Sam, but Sam just stares back with concern on his face.

"I'm fine," Maxson snaps.

"Something is wrong with your arm. If you're hurt, I need to know."

"I'm _fine_."

"Maxson, let me-"

"ALRIGHT," Maxson snarls, his anger rising to the breaking point, and he digs his nails into his right elbow. "Here's my fucking arm, maybe you'll see what's wrong with it!"

Sam's eyebrows shoot up halfway to his hairline as Maxson yanks off the prosthetic; there's a tinny noise and a loud click as it comes off, and Maxson shoves it toward Sam and lets go of it without waiting to see if he'll catch it.

"What the-"

Maxson shoves his way past Sam and storms out of the kitchen, leaving behind a completely flabbergasted Sam behind.

* * *

Doing things with just one hand actually works out more smoothly than Maxson had thought, although it does create a few annoyances. When he returns to the kitchen the next day he finds his arm laid out on the dining table, one of the panels open with some signs of someone having dug around in it. Sam, of course.

Maxson pulls out a chair and sits down heavily in it, staring at his arm. He almost tries to clasp his hands over his mouth with elbows on the table, and catches himself when his left hand grips nothing but empty air. His arm is, as would be expected, completely motionless on the table.

"I'm guessing you want that back."

Sam's voice comes from behind him. Maxson turns as Sam enters the kitchen, stopping next to Maxson.

"I don't know how to fix it," Sam admits. "But I know someone who might be able to. It would need to go to Sanctuary, or he would have to come here, and I don't think he can really leave Sanctuary. It might break down without him."

"Is this your way of telling me to pack my things?" Maxson asks, not looking at Sam.

"I'm not sending you to Sanctuary alone."

Sam taps the edge of the table, apparently without much reason as he pulls his hand back again.

"Knowing Sturges, he could probably fix it in a day. Longer, if he needs to hunt for replacement parts," Sam says. "And... he can be trusted."

Maxson shakes his head, but he doesn't have anything to object to.

* * *

They leave the next day, his arm rolled in a spare button-up and Maxson's right sleeve knotted. He'd felt a strange sense of something almost like phantom limb as he'd watched Sam wrap his arm in the shirt, tying the sleeves to keep the bundle together much like how he had tied the loose sleeve of Maxson's shirt just below his elbow. It's a somewhat heavy weight in Maxson's backpack, but it's comforting enough to know that it's there.

Getting to Sanctuary is a much more nerve-wracking ordeal than any traveling Maxson has ever done in his life. Sam is on high alert for any Brotherhood remnants (a sizable number of them still scattered in the Commonwealth, a number that Maxson had once taken solace in knowing were still out there) or Institute synths. It's not an entirely unreasonable thing to be worried about; even now, the occasional gen-2 can be found shambling about on degrading legs or frozen in hibernation until approached.

Sanctuary itself is a whole different level of nerve-wracking. Arriving should give Maxson a sense of safety, he believes, but Sam looks even more on edge than he did on the road. Maxson remembers when his map of the Commonwealth spread out across his desk marked Sanctuary as a minor point of reference for the landscape, and later for Minutemen activity with a possibility of Railroad interference.

This is far bigger than a minor point of reference.

Maxson could compare it to Diamond City without being accused of exaggeration; the only difference that he can tell is the lack of a pre-War structure encasing the whole city. He tries to avoid staring, although it's difficult to not try to catch a glimpse at the buildings, much bigger than he's used to seeing post-War buildings be. Some of them seem to be built off of existing pre-War buildings, but most appear newer. Maxson turns back to Sam and sees his eye trailing from building to building.

"This way," Sam says, tugging on Maxson's arm. He has to suppress the simultaneous urge to lean into the touch and knee-jerk reaction to shove Sam off of him.

* * *

The houses in this part of Sanctuary are clearly rebuilt pre-War houses, the architecture less concerned with defensibility or conserving space and more with how aesthetically pleasing they seem. Even with obvious signs of knocked down walls and rebuilt foundations, the houses are awkwardly shaped compared to the rest of Sanctuary's homes.

There's a touch of the pre-War still here too, old mailboxes painted over and emblazoned with new names and flower boxes with struggling hubflower stems reaching up toward glass windows.

Maxson could write a poem about all of it. An innocuous sort of Old World Blues, the kind that makes people hang broken Nuka-Cola neon signs in their workshops or slave over hot stoves attempting to decipher the mysteries of how Fancy Lads are so good. Less "blues" and more "wonder," he supposes.

Sam tugs on his arm again and leads him in the direction of a house. This one looks a little more practically built than the rest, no porch with wooden rails. There is, however, what looks like some sort of attempt at a mobile that Sam almost knocks his head into, made from polished glass pieces suspended on thread around a painted tin can. Sam politely taps his knuckles against the door and waits while Maxson continues to stare at the mobile.

Maxson practically jumps when the door opens. One arm propped against the doorframe, the house's inhabitant stares at Sam, then Maxson, then back to Sam.

"...can I help you boys?" he asks, and Sam pulls down his scarf.

"Hi Sturges, sorry to pop out of nowhere," Sam replies, and Sturges grins.

"Hell, I haven't seen you around in a while," he says, motioning for the two to come inside. He does a quick scan of the outside once they're indoors, and he shuts the door behind him with a bit of a nervous smile.

"Anybody know you're here?"

"No."

"Should I tell Preston?"

"Nah. It's not- we kind of needed your skills more than his."

"Need something fixed?"

"Exactly."

Maxson takes that as his cue to open his bag, swinging it off of one shoulder and flipping it around so that Sam can pull out the prosthetic. Sturges stares at it once Sam gets the shirt off of it.

"That... looks like something that might come from the Institute," he says.

"It's not," Maxson snaps, and immediately gentles his voice when he realizes. "It's Brotherhood-made. The Institute isn't the only place with technology."

"Some of the parts are degraded, and neither of us have a way to replace or fix what's broken," Sam explains, looking down at the prosthetic. His eye sweeps across the surface of it as if inspecting it, and Maxson could swear that Sam's hand tightens around the wrist before it's handed over to Sturges. Sturges holds it up carefully, looking at the connection port for a moment.

"If I can figure out what's wrong, I'm sure I can figure out how to replace what's wrong," he says. "Might need you two to go fetch me stuff. Do you know how to work with this?" Sturges is talking directly to Maxson now. Maxson nods, and walks over.

"For the most part, yes. I wasn't the one who made it, or fixed it usually, but they taught me how to repair and maintain it."

"Help me dig through this, and I can tell you two what I need to fix it, then."

Sturges smiles at Maxson and motions for him to follow. Sam nods and moves to plop down into a chair to wait.

* * *

Sturges is almost dainty about carrying and setting down the prosthetic onto his workbench, as if he's carrying an overheated plasma rifle with a leak. Maxson puts his hand on the workbench surface, feeling the smoothed-down texture. He points out the seam hiding at the underside, hidden with a molded scar, and Sturges pops open the panel with ease. Immediately, he notices a frayed wire, and Maxson flinches when he disconnects that from its source. But there's not jolt or uncomfortable dead stop of sensation that follows. Of course there isn't.

Maxson isn't sure if Sturges knows who he is. Maxson isn't sure if this is what Sturges is like normally either, so he can't really ascertain if this is how Sturges acts around other people too or if he knows who Maxson really is. He never asks for Maxson's name either, just keeps focusing on the prosthetic laid out on his workbench and asking about this or that. He's appears equal parts impressed and fascinated with the prosthetic as he carefully digs through the machinery.

"I'm not as used to working with small things," Sturges admits. "Most of my fixing is big machines, but this is just a big machine made smaller. Nothing I can't do."

"You're Sanctuary's go-to mechanic, I assume?" Maxson asks, and Sturges laughs.

"Sure am! I fix anything that breaks. Turrets on the walls, the Auto-Doc when that breaks down, sometimes a trader with a Robo-Brain that's got its arms all in a tangle. That happens, you know, those bendy arms can actually get tangled up in each other. Of course, then you have to fix the tangle _and_ the circuit that somehow interpreted 'attack with arms' as 'tie arms into a giant knot and hit anyone who tries to help in the face.'"

"Right," is all Maxson can think to respond with. Sturges keeps digging, shifting wires out of his way.

"Sorry, can you hold this for me?" Sturges asks, wiggling his pinky to indicate his right hand currently holding a pair of pliers keeping some wires in place. Maxson nods and reaches for it, expecting to grab the rubber surface of the plier handles. But he feels absolutely nothing as he wraps his hand around it.

That's not his hand. That's not his arm. The fingers on his arm lay motionless on the table.

Maxson's face burns with embarrassment, immediately moving to grab the pliers with his left hand while he lowers his right elbow back toward his body. He knows that Sturges can tell what he just tried to do.

"It's alright," Sturges says reasurringly. Maxson snorts.

"It's on the damn table, and I'm looking at it with my own two eyes," he mutters.

"Your brain is still used to having it attached. It needs time to adjust to it not being there. Besides, it's better if your brain doesn't forget about it being there, since you'll be using it again soon."

"I suppose."

Sturges is quiet as he continues, occasionally pulling out more wires. He pauses, and squints.

"That isn't supposed to look like that, is it?" he asks, poking at a part inside with his pliers as Maxson bends down to look.

"Absolutely not," Maxson replies. "What is that? I've never seen that... leaking."

"I think there's a battery of some sort inside there that got a bit too banged up," Sturges says. He tugs at the part, sighs deeply when it refuses to budge, and then tugs a little harder; it immediately flies out, slips from the grip of the pliers, and lands on the floor a foot away.

"I don't think we can use that part anymore," Maxson says, staring at the mess of dried battery leakage crumbled on the floor leading in a trail to the part now in two parts.

"...at least we know what the problem is now, then," Sturges adds. He walks over to pick up the broken pieces and turns them over in his gloved hands. He brings them back to the workbench and lays them down for Maxson to look at too.

It's a relatively small object, formerly square-ish with a cover and what looks like some sort of battery with a coil wrapped around it.

"So I guess this was just a battery and the cover for it. Replacing it shouldn't be too hard, but this is pretty small," Sturges says, tapping his finger on the workbench. "It almost looks like... hell, it looks kind of like something out of a Gen 2 synth."

Maxson tries to hide his sudden anger with a snort.

"This was made well before-"

"The Brotherhood knew that the Institute existed? I'm not saying you're made out of Gen 2 parts, but arms are arms and it would be odd if yours wasn't at least a little similar to what the Institute made."

Sturges glances at Maxson; Maxson wonders if he's gauging Maxson's anger.

"This works better for us, anyway. I've got a pile of parts from Gen 2's that the turrets took out. They've got a lot of small parts that make it easier to fix smaller things. I'm sure I can find something to replace this failed battery," he says. Maxson shrugs and suppresses the scowl that threatens to show itself.

"Alright," he says. He's not really alright with it.

* * *

Maxson expects the prosthetic to shock him, or fail on him, or otherwise hurt him somehow when it puts it back on; at least if that happens, he can say _I told you so_ and be proven right that his distaste for using synth parts was well-founded. But it clicks into place and switches back on without a single problem, only the usual level of unsettling discomfort as Maxson is able to feel through it again.

"Everything feel alright?" Sturges asks as Maxson twists and curls the various joints.

"Let me test one thing," he says, and squeezes his left hand; he keeps squeezing even as it starts to hurt, and lets go once he's satisfied.

"What was that for?" Sam asks.

"To make sure I still have complete control over it."

"One synth part isn't going to take control of your arm."

Maxson ignores Sam, instead choosing to run his fingers over the scar on the underside of his right arm. It's been secured closed again, leaving no indication of splits or seams.

"Everything all good?" Sturges asks, and that snaps Maxson back to reality; he owes Sturges... well, something. Mechanics don't fix things for free.

"It works as well as it should," Maxson replies. "I- Thank you. I don't know how much-"

"Oh Lord, no you don't," Sturges interrupts, clapping Maxson on the shoulder. "Don't try to pay me anything. I spent one afternoon fixing something I've never had the chance to fix before, and now I know how to work with it."

"Sturges- are you sure?" Sam asks incredulously, raising one eyebrow. "It's not like-"

"No no no, absolutely not. I'm calling Preston on you both if you try to pay me anything."

"Will you at least take a box of Fancy Lads, or something?"

"No paying me with food either!" Sturges laughs. "Or you could stay for dinner and pay with dinner company, if you're not leaving until morning?"

Sam looks at Maxson, who looks back, and shrugs.

* * *

They do end up staying with Sturges for dinner, then promptly run into Preston Garvey as they leave; not that it seems to be an unlikely thing to happen, as the Minutemen General exits from the house right next door, but Sam seems to jump a bit at seeing him regardless. General Garvey is amicable at seeing Sam, and even acts relatively casual about seeing Maxson. Their conversation is short, mostly of Sam catching up with a friend. Once their short conversation ends, Garvey continues on to wherever he's headed to, and Sam tugs on Maxson's sleeve in a different direction.

"We're staying the night at that treehouse. I dunno if you saw it coming in, but that-"

"House attached to the tree, yes, I saw it," Maxson replies. "I saw it."

"Oh. Okay. Good. We'll go there, then."

The silence between the two of them is distinctly uncomfortable as Sam leads the way to the treehouse. The treehouse isn't very tall, four stories tall, but as Maxson climbs the steps behind Sam he starts to get suspicious.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Where is your room?"

"Up."

"How far up?"

"Further up."

"Is your room on the top floor?"

Sam doesn't say anything as he begins to climb the last set of stairs.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Why is your room on the top floor?"

"I- I like the view," Sam stammers out.

"Does your leg like the climb?" Maxson asks. He's actually concerned at this point, watching to make sure Sam doesn't take a tumble back down the stairs.

"It's fine."

"Right."

"Listen, it really is, I like the view and I can climb stairs-"

Sam turns around as if to prove to Maxson that he's fine as he reaches the landing on the last step. Maxson stares at him.

"You walked four floors every time you needed to leave or enter your room?" Maxson asks, incredulous. On one hand, Maxson can't believe that Sam would put himself through that; on the other hand, he absolutely can believe that Sam would do something like that.

"It's fine! I'm fine! I'm not- ow."

Sam scowls and sits down in a chair, tugging off his shoe and turning it upside down to shake out whatever is stuck inside. Nothing falls out.

"Of course," Maxson says, watching as Sam gives up on trying to pretend that his foot pain has anything to do with mysterious foreign objects in his shoe, and moves on to detatching his prosthetic leg for the night. Sam catches Maxson staring, and Maxson raises an eyebrow at Sam, who rolls his eyes.

"My leg is FINE."

Maxson doesn't answer this time, and instead decides to take a sweeping look of the room. Of course, because this is Sam's room, there's only one bed. Sam insists that Maxson take the bed, but there's no other bed-like furniture in the room for Sam to sleep in.

"Just- your bed isn't too small for us both. Don't sleep on the floor," Maxson says, rubbing his temple. Sam turns red.

"I wasn't going to!"

Maxson doesn't believe Sam for a second, not until Sam is lying in bed next to him. They plan on leaving early in the morning tomorrow, and Sam says something about spending some time checking Maxson's arm before they leave.

The two of them lie in bed, side by side.

"We're getting up early tomorrow morning," Sam says.

"Right," Maxson replies.

There's silence.

Maxson turns over, his back toward Sam. It's not as comfortable of a position, but he takes up less space this way. He can hear Sam shift too, and Maxson hazards a glance.

Sam has his back to Maxson. Maxson rolls back over onto his side, and closes his eyes.

* * *

The point of waking up early is to avoid being seen by too many people as they leave, but even then it's relatively busy outside. Sam isn't too happy, but he's even less happy to spend more time in Sanctuary than he needs, so he and Maxson walk down the four flights of stairs as everyone gets ready for their morning.

"Everything alright?" Sam asks as they step outside of the treehouse. "No need to see Sturges again?"

"It's fine," Maxson replies, curling his hand. He's confident that Sturges had been thorough enough in fixing his arm, and Maxson is just as eager to get moving as Sam is. They weave around people heading out to get breakfast or preparing to open up shop, and a few Minutement returning from the early morning patrol. Sam only nods to them when they greet him with a polite "good morning." Maxson is trying to pay attention to Sam, but he still can't help but catch some more glances around Sanctuary before he goes. He doesn't expect to ever return.

Someone's hand slides into his right hand, and Maxson startles. When his head snaps forward again, he realizes that it's Sam's, pulling him in the right direction.

"I'm not going to wander off," he tells Sam irritably. Sam doesn't respond, but gives his hand a quick squeeze instead.

Maxson isn't sure what that's for. He ponders for just a moment how to react as Sam continues to lead him along. He could pull his hand out of Sam's, or squeeze back, or do nothing. He doesn't even know what Sam is trying to say in his silence. Is this just a part of Sam, to need to hold on to whatever's close by? Maxson remembers waking up this morning to Sam's arm thrown over his waist, body turned toward Maxson despite all memory of the night before pointing toward the fact that Sam had turned away from Maxson before going to sleep.

"You'll yank my arm out of its socket if you keep pulling," he settles on saying. Sam's grip noticably slackens, almost slipping out of Maxson's hand.

Maxson squeezes Sam's hand to keep his grip as he's led out of Sanctuary.


End file.
